The Seven Ages of a Man
by Jedi Sapphire
Summary: Aragorn son of Arathorn has been many things: warrior, captain, King, lover, friend, son, father. But more than anything else, he is a man.


**Summary: **Aragorn son of Arathorn has been many things: warrior, captain, King, lover, friend, son, father. But more than anything else, he is a man.

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien created the characters and Shakespeare wrote the poetry. I'm just having a bit of fun.

This fic is for Cal, to say thank you for being such a wonderful beta! ((hugs)) (I know you don't particularly like Shakespeare, but I hope you won't mind this once!)

Many, many thanks to Silivren Tinu, for beta-ing this for me in record time.

* * *

**The Seven Ages of a Man**

_At first the infant,  
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms._

Elladan hustled the women out of the building.

They were women of the Dúnedain. They were accustomed to danger, and they did not panic. They ran quickly and quietly, carrying such of their possessions as they needed to survive. Children who were old enough to walk were led by the hand, babies strapped to their mothers' or aunts' backs. He saw several of them bearing their dead husbands' weapons: swords and shields, bows and knives.

The women of the Dúnedain could be fierce fighters if the need arose.

Elladan wished he could make them move faster, but he knew they were going as quickly as they could. He tried to contain his impatience; it would have been easier if his sharp Elven ears had not already caught Orc-horns sounding in the distance.

He cast an anxious glance to his left.

The Chieftain's dwelling was set slightly apart from the rest of the settlement, although it was as small and simple as any house of the Dúnedain. He could see the flicker of a candle in one of the upper windows, a tiny yellow pinprick that cast faint shadows on the wall behind it.

Elladan tried not to chew at his bottom lip. The Orc-horns were drawing nearer by the minute. They had very little time.

Just as the last woman scrambled out of the village hall, chivvying two small children in front of her, the front door of the Chieftain's house was flung open. The Chieftain's wife ran out, her small son held securely against her hip. She was wearing a full, dark cloak like all the other women, the better to slip unseen into the night. A scabbard dangled from a leather belt around her waist. Elladan did not need to ask to know the sword in it was broken.

His twin brother Elrohir hurried out after her.

"Quickly," Elladan urged as soon as Gilraen was within hearing distance. "To the horses!"

As though the baby heard his words and disapproved, he let out a loud wail. Elladan was certain it had carried through the night to the advancing Orcs; he thought he could hear their tread hasten.

Gilraen crooned to the baby, rocking him in her arms, but the grey eyes she raised to Elladan's were anything but gentle.

"I do not like running away."

There was no time for the niceties of debate, no time for gentle persuasion.

"You can stay here and be slaughtered," Elladan said simply. "Not even Elrohir and I are a match for an army such as they are bringing, my lady, and there is nobody near enough to help. It may be wiser to flee and keep vengeance for another day."

"Let me take the child," Elrohir offered, gathering Gilraen's baby from her arms. She opened her mouth to protest, but the Elf shook his head firmly. "I will take care of him, my lady. You have my word. Is he not my kinsman, and the last of my uncle's line?" He settled the baby against his shoulder with practised ease. "Do you have somewhere to go? A place of safety?"

"We will ride west," Gilraen said, walking towards the horses. "We have friends and kin –"

"_No._" Elladan did not wait for her to finish. "My lady, the others can ride west if they choose, but you should come with us. Come to Imladris. You will be safe there – _he _will be safe there."

"And abandon my people? I will never do such a thing!"

"Lady Gilraen, if we go in a different direction, I think the Orcs will follow _us_, not the others." Gilraen did not reply, but her expression said the words had sunk in. "Think of your son, Lady Gilraen. Your people need him. He can be properly trained in Imladris, and he will be safe there until he is old enough to defend himself against the Enemy."

Gilraen stared at him in silence, her eyes reflecting the light of the stars. When she finally spoke, her voice was quivering with a mixture of fear and grief. "Very well."

* * *

_Then, the whining schoolboy with his satchel  
And shining morning face, creeping like snail  
Unwillingly to school._

"But _why_ did Thingol wear a grey cloak?"

Erestor could have cried. He had thought that the son of the Elven-King of Greenwood was the last child to whom he would attempt to impart history and political science, and when he had declared Legolas' lessons with him at an end he had nearly whooped in joy at the thought of no more _questions_.

Yet here he was, closeted with Estel in the library, and he was finding that mortal children could be just as trying as Elflings.

"He only had grey wool," Erestor said. It was the seventh explanation he had tried to get past Estel.

Like all the others, it failed.

"But I saw a painting of him and Queen Melian in the gallery by the garden. She was wearing a blue gown. They _must_ have had blue wool."

Erestor thought he heard a pair of muffled snickers from behind a nearby bookshelf. He scowled. He was sorely tempted to summon Elladan and Elrohir from their hiding-place and order them to take over the lesson. He had done it several times when Legolas had been a child.

But that had been different, as he reminded himself with an inward sigh. Legolas had been an Elf-child. Erestor had turned him over to the sons of Elrond in the knowledge that he had ample time to remove any mistaken ideas that they put in his head. With Estel...

Erestor had not met many Men – none at all apart from Dúnedain – but he knew that mortal children grew up sooner than Elflings. He had a great deal to teach Estel in very little time and, unlike with Legolas, he was not imparting the principles of statecraft and governance in the expectation – and fervent hope – that his pupil would never have to use the knowledge.

"It was a different dye," he tried, because he knew Estel would not let him say anything on the subject of Thingol's laws until the matter of the grey cloak had been resolved. "The gown was fine linen. The blue dye was not meant to be used on wool."

"Why not?"

Had Erestor not been a wise and noble Elf-lord, he would have torn his hair. As it was, he buried his head in his hands with a groan.

After a moment, he had a flash of inspiration.

"If you promise to pay attention to the rest of the lesson, I will tell you how you can find out about Thingol's grey cloak." He waited for a confirmatory nod before he continued. "For the next hour, we are going to talk about the laws Thingol made to help keep his people safe and happy. If you have any questions, write them down. When we have finished, go to the other side of _that_ bookshelf." Erestor pointed. "There you will find two foolish Elves – _who are not going to move_," he added, raising his voice. "They will answer all your questions. Does that sound acceptable?"

Erestor could not keep a wicked smile from spreading across his face when Estel nodded eagerly.

* * *

_And then the lover,  
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad  
Made to his mistress' eyebrow._

He was Aragorn, son of Arathorn. He was the last descendant of Elendil and Isildur, rightful Chieftain of the Dúnedain, born to be King of Gondor and Arnor. He was wise for his years, a skilled and brave warrior, and handsome enough that girls made eyes at him when he and his brothers rode through mortal villages.

He was all this, and yet he was not enough, because _she_ was so much more.

She was Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar of her people, and Aragorn knew that no words in the tongues of Men or Elves would ever be sufficient to describe her beauty.

She was Arwen Undómiel, with eyes that sparkled like stars of twilight and hair as dark as midnight. She was tall and slender, clad in white and girt with silver. She was the child of two races, Men and Elves; she had the passion and fierceness of one and the grace and dignity of the other.

Aragorn knew he had to have her, and he knew it was hopeless, because why would a creature so lovely, so splendid, give up immortality to be with one as unworthy as him?

Aragorn knew he had to have her, and he could not help hoping, because he thought he had seen a flicker of something in her eyes when she looked at him. Perhaps it was only curiosity. She had never met a Man before. But perhaps – _perhaps_...

Yet he did not speak. Whenever he stood before her with a full heart, he found himself on the verge of saying something. He never did, because he could never find the words. What could he say? _I love you?_ "Love" was such a mild word for what he felt. _Marry me?_ How could he ask it of her? How could he, who had nothing to offer but a broken sword and a cottage on the plains of Eriador, ask the Lady of Imladris and Lórien to give up immortality for a few brief years with him?

His mother knew, because Gilraen always knew. There was no advice she could give. She was wise, and she would have helped him if she could have done, her own misgivings notwithstanding, but she knew nothing of how Elf-maidens liked to be wooed.

His foster-father would have known – had not Elrond wooed and won one of the fairest Elves in Middle-earth, the daughter of Galadriel herself? But Aragorn did not dare ask him for advice, not when success would mean Elrond having to part from his beloved daughter for all eternity. For the same reason Aragorn could not ask his foster-brothers, either, and feared to ask any Elf.

And then one day, standing in the eaves of Lothlórien on a carpet of fallen _elanor _blossoms, the shades of twilight descending around him and Arwen standing before him with eyes that spoke volumes, Aragorn realized that it did not matter that he was mortal or that he had no words. They were caught in an age of war, an age of change, an age when Elrond and his kin would sail across the Sundering Sea to the Elvenhome. Arwen's time of choosing was nigh.

Aragorn knew he was unworthy. He knew that he should not encourage her to give up immortality for him. He knew –

But when she finally vowed to forsake the Elven Twilight to cleave to him, all Aragorn felt was gratitude, relief, and more love than he had believed possible. It might be foolish. Their time together might be brief. But they would _be _together, in Middle-earth and after it, and that could never be a bad thing.

* * *

_Then a soldier,  
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,  
Seeking the bubble reputation  
Even in the cannon's mouth._

For all the oddness of their trio, Aragorn could not have chosen two better companions for the desperate chase through the wilds of Middle-earth.

Legolas ran easily beside him, even more tireless than the Ranger. Centuries spent fighting the shadow that threatened his father's people had given him even sharper reflexes and greater endurance than were normal for an Elf. Aragorn could not find words for how grateful he was that his friend had elected to come with him instead of riding north from Lórien. It was true that the folk of the Woodland Realm needed their prince, but Aragorn needed him even more. This was not a fight he could face alone.

Gimli trailed a few yards behind them. His breath was coming in great, heaving gasps, axe handle clanking against his helmet. Dwarves were not made to run across country, and Aragorn knew it could not be pleasant for Gimli to try to keep up with a Dúnadan in a hurry, but he did not complain. Much. Aragorn had had occasion to thank the Valar for the Dwarf's presence more than once: Gimli did not like chasing things, but he was a formidable fighter in his own way, and there were several Orcs that had learnt the hard way to fear a battle-axe.

Aragorn would have given a great deal to have a company of the Dúnedain with them, or his foster-brothers, or a handful of Elven archers. Courage and strength of will could take them only so far against vastly superior numbers.

The Man looked over his shoulder to glance at Gimli. The Dwarf waved at him to indicate that he was fine, but did not waste breath on words. He looked tired, but determined. Aragorn had seen that look on his men when they were riding into their fourth or fifth battle in two days.

Legolas' face showed far less expression; that, too, was something Aragorn had seen before. He had ridden into enough battles with Elven warriors – with Legolas himself – to recognize, and almost fear, the preternatural calmness that descended on them. If it lasted through the battle, it lent uncanny precision to their aim and strength to their arms; if it did not, it gave way to a cold, contained fury that was even more terrifying.

Aragorn did not know why his companions were still with him. Legolas had said, looking to the north with troubled eyes, that war marched upon Greenwood. There was battle under the trees, battle _everywhere_, Elves and Dwarves and Men, unprotected by Rings of Power, locked in frantic warfare against the forces of the Enemy. Gimli must be worried about his family, about whether the Shadow was marching on his home, whether his people were safe or fighting or fleeing for their lives. Legolas was surely aware that his presence would give fresh strength to the Elven archers who had ridden with him all their lives.

Yet his friends had chosen to stay with him.

And Aragorn suddenly realized that he _did _know why they had chosen to stay with him instead of going to the defence of their homes. He himself was chasing a legion of Orcs through Middle-earth, not knowing what he would do if he caught up to them, not knowing if even Gimli's battle prowess and Legolas' frighteningly accurate marksmanship would be enough to get them out alive. He was going to the rescue of two young Hobbits who had trusted him, resisting the urge to follow Frodo into Mordor, resisting the urge to fly and warn Gondor and Rohan of the impending danger.

It did not matter where they chose to make their stand. Aragorn had realized that. There was no safety now, no assurances, no help save in their own strength. Wherever they went, the battle would come to them, and they would face it.

For now, they were looking for two Halflings.

* * *

_And then the justice,  
In fair round belly with good capon lined,  
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,  
Full of wise saws and modern instances;  
And so he plays his part._

Faramir tried not to doze. He had always been a soldier, leading his men into battle, fighting Orcs and human brigands and other things that threatened the peace of Gondor. He was not and never had been a courtier. But now he was Prince of Ithilien, and that meant sitting in the banquet-hall listening to one man after another extol the virtues of King Elessar and the fifty glorious years of his reign.

He stole a glance at Éowyn. He and his wife had grown old together; sometimes he forgot how long it had been since the great War. The years sat on Aragorn lightly and on Arwen not at all.

Éowyn shot him a look of commiseration. She had been placed between Gimli and Elrohir; between the two of them, they were managing to keep her entertained. Elrohir in particular seemed expert at speaking without moving his lips. Faramir imagined he had had a great deal of practice. Faramir himself was near the head of the banquet-table, a few seats away from Aragorn, and he could not afford to be distracted.

Legolas should have been sitting opposite him, but he had extricated himself from the situation by declaring that he would attend on the Elven-king and sending his friend Rochendilwen in his place. The Elf – Faramir had tried to think of her as an Elf-maiden, but somehow that term did not suit the dark-eyed archerwho had seen more battles than the entire mortal population of Ithilien put together – wore a resigned expression, but bore it with good grace.

Thranduil himself was about halfway down the table. His face was utterly expressionless; the only sign that he was listening was an occasional quirk of his eyebrow or sharp glance behind him at the two Elves who stood, as silent and still as statues, in the shadow of the huge pillars in the centre of the hall.

Normally the Elven-king would have been near the head, but Faramir suspected Legolas had had a hand in the seating plan, arranging things so that the attendants of the Elven-king could stand in darkness. He was almost certain that Legolas was no longer even there. The torches had burned low over the course of the banquet; in the flickering half-light that filled the room now, the two Elves behind Thranduil could have been replaced half a dozen times without any of the Men any the wiser.

He could not see Arwen's face: she was too far away and his eyesight had grown poor. But he could see Aragorn's, and he knew his King well enough to see past the mask of polite interest. Elessar of Gondor was as bored as the youngest page yawning in a corner.

Faramir had not expected Aragorn to take to the life of a King. He was a soldier, like Faramir himself, and soldiers seldom adapted well to the politics of court.

But the former Ranger had surprised him, slipping into the role with ease. Whoever had taught him in Imladris had taught him well. It was a lesson some of the courtiers, who had believed they would be able to outmanoeuvre Elessar, had learnt to their chagrin. Faramir was certain Arwen had had a hand in _some_ of it – the Queen might appear young enough to be his granddaughter, but one only had to look in her eyes to see the wisdom of her long, long life – but if so, neither of them ever gave any hint of it.

Faramir's eye was caught by an unexpected movement. He turned to see Thranduil straighten almost imperceptibly and raise his hand perhaps half a centimetre. One of the Elves was beside him in an instant, going from lounging insouciantly against the pillar to crouching beside his King on one knee, bow in hand. Faramir supposed there must have been movement in between; he had not spotted it.

Then Faramir realized the Elf was Legolas. He could not see his face: it was turned away from him as the Elf listened to whatever Thranduil was saying. But he could see Thranduil's face, and the gentleness that briefly softened the Elven-king's stern countenance was enough.

Faramir felt a moment's wistfulness. If he had had such a relationship with his father... Why blame Denethor alone? Faramir himself was not as close to Elboron. He loved his son; he loved him more than anything and, always aware of his own regrets, he had tried never to let the boy feel the lack of his affection or his respect. But there was only so much mortals could do: he and Elboron had a good relationship, but the closeness that came only after centuries upon centuries of laughter and tears and friendship and quarrelling... Perhaps they would have it beyond the circles of the world. They did not have it now.

Faramir turned to Aragorn, and saw his own emotions mirrored on the King's face. He felt a pang: how much worse must the knowledge of mortality be for his friend, who had grown up among Elves?

They exchanged a glance and smile. Then, because they were Men, because they had duties, because they knew better than to worry about what they could not help, they returned their attention to the banquet and the merchant who was waxing lyrical about how the safety of the roads had improved under King Elessar.

* * *

_The sixth age shifts  
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,  
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,  
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide  
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,  
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes  
And whistles in his sound._

Gimli noticed more than he let anybody believe.

He was older now, well into his middle years. His hair and beard were frosted with white. There were times when his armour seemed a burden, his axe too heavy.

Sometimes he wondered if his life had all been a dream.

But here, now, with Arwen beside him, as lovely and youthful as she had been when he had first seen her all those years ago, he knew it had been real. He and eight other fools had set out from Imladris on a suicidal mission against the Enemy, outnumbered, outflanked, with nothing to sustain them but their own desperate hope.

Their numbers had fallen; as they drew to an end, only Legolas and Aragorn remained in Middle-earth. And Aragorn...

Gimli's heart broke a little each time he saw what he now witnessed.

Aragorn faced Elladan on the sparring-field. Although the King of Men still bore his sword with pride, although his Númenorean blood gave him the vigour of a man a quarter of his age, although he could still hold his own against the wide-eyed new soldiers when he sparred with them, he was no longer any kind of match for an Elf.

Elladan was... not letting him win, because no warrior would do that, but he was not attacking with all his strength. Elrohir and Legolas had just finished sparring, sword against knives. It had been a close contest – and a vigorous one. They had moved almost too fast for the eye to follow – or perhaps too fast for _Gimli's_ eye to follow, now – occasionally drawing blood even with blunted blades, leaping back and forth and even _over_ each other, not pausing until one scored a point.

Aragorn still had skill, speed and strength, but while he had once been a swordsman to give even an Elf pause, while he had once been able to keep up with the pace and movement of Elven sparring without even breathing hard, now he fought like a Man.

There was no shame in it: Aragorn _was_ a Man, one in remarkably fine fettle for his age. But how could someone who had been raised among Elves, who treated years as passing circumstances and were frequently uncertain of precisely how old they _were_, accept the ravages of age? Gimli could not bring himself to do that, and Gimli had been brought up entirely by mortals.

Aragorn was growing short of breath now. His movements had slowed: just a fraction, but even that fraction was a serious disadvantage when his opponent had Elven reflexes.

Elladan kept it mercifully short: a couple of feints, a flick of his wrist, and Aragorn's sword clattered to the ground.

Gimli heard a deep sigh. He turned to Arwen again. She was watching her husband and her brother with a mixture of affection and grief that seemed too deep for words. She seemed to sense the Dwarf's eyes on her: she turned, smiled a little, and said, "They do not do it for his sake."

"My Queen?"

"Go lightly on him. You cannot pretend you have not noticed it. It is impossible not to notice." Gimli nodded, his throat tight. "They treat him as though he were a student again; they do not let him win, but they do hold back. It is difficult for him, but it would be harder to be disarmed in the first ten seconds. That is why I have not objected, although, as I said, it is not for his sake that they do it."

"Why?"

"My brothers will sail soon," she said. "I think they do not want to be here... at the end. Legolas has promised to stay as long as Estel is... with us. I do not think he entirely understands just _how_ difficult it will be when the time comes. But I am glad he will be here. Elves hate partings, Gimli. When forever truly _is _forever, and when you know that the moment must come... Why do you think I have never returned to Imladris?"

Gimli stared at her, a thousand questions whirling through his mind.

"What do you do when that parting comes?"

Arwen shrugged, half-amused, half-rueful. "We grieve. We sing. And we never forget."

* * *

_Last scene of all,  
That ends this strange eventful history,  
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,  
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything._

Legolas stood in the doorway, afraid to enter, afraid not to enter. When Aragorn had sent for him, he had ridden at once and ridden hard, his instincts telling him that it was time.

Now, as his eyes alighted on his friend, he knew he had been right.

Aragorn was still not decrepit. He had the use of all his faculties and his movements were vigorous, if not as brisk as before. But there was something in his eyes, something that Legolas had not seen in any Elf. His friend looked weary in a way that frightened the young Elf.

"Estel?"

Aragorn looked up at him, and although he was the younger by several centuries, his eyes softened into an expression of paternal affection. It darkened into sorrow almost at once.

"I am sorry, Elfling." He beckoned to Legolas to enter and shut the door. When the Elf had done so, he went on, "I should have given more thought to what it would do to you to see this. Perhaps it would have been best for you to go when my brothers did."

"_No_," Legolas said sharply. Then, after a moment, "That is irrelevant in any case. I am here."

"You know why I called you?"

"I can guess." Legolas crossed the room swiftly, dropping to one knee beside Aragorn's chair. It was only when a smile flickered across his friend's face that he realized he had responded to Aragorn as he would to his own father.

"Is that how old I seem to you now?" Aragorn asked, amusement lacing his tone. "It is well past time to be gone."

"_Estel!_"

"I am sorry, Elfling. I should not have said that." A trembling hand rested on Legolas' bowed head for a moment. Then it was gone, and Aragorn spoke again. "Go to Eryn Lasgalen when this is done, Legolas."

Legolas looked up, startled. "I thought you would tell me to leave."

"I do think you should leave, but perhaps... after it is over... you will need the comfort of your father's presence more than what lies across the Sea. I do not know, but he will. Go to him. And do as he tells you."

Legolas rolled his eyes. "And you wonder why I think you are like him!" His voice did not shake too much, for which he was grateful.

"He is wise. He saw this day coming when I was sixteen." Aragorn paused, looking at Legolas thoughtfully. "He also told me I would regret giving you this grief far more than you would regret going through it. Are you sure he does not have the ability to foretell the future?"

"I have never been entirely certain," Legolas admitted. Then, because he could push it aside and speak about other things, but he could not dismiss the thought entirely, "Must it be now?"

"Would you have me linger on until age weakens me even further, Elfling? Do you remember how it was for Faramir at the end?" Legolas flinched involuntarily, and Aragorn sighed. "I will come to that, in time, if I overstay my years. And once the decline begins, it will progress swiftly. In a few years you will barely know me. I will not be able to lift my sword; I may not even be able to stand unaided. I do not want your last memory of me to be of a decrepit old man drinking broth in his bed." He hesitated, hand ghosting over Legolas' head again. "Promise me you will go to your father, Elfling. I will have no peace if I do not know that you are safe."

Slowly, Legolas nodded, blinking tears out of his eyes. "We will sing of you in the Blessed Realm," he offered.

"I know you will." Aragorn slid a hand under Legolas' chin and tilted it up, forcing the Elf to meet his serious grey eyes. "When you do, sing of me as I was, when we sparred in the gardens of Imladris, when I wooed Arwen in the eaves of the Golden Wood, when you and Gimli and I hunted Orc through the wilds."

"We will remember all of you, Estel."

It was Aragorn's turn to nod. His hand dropped to Legolas' shoulder. He squeezed it once, convulsively, and then released it, clenching his fist around the arm of his chair. Legolas, understanding, stood to leave.

When he reached the doorway, Aragorn said, "Legolas." The Elf turned. "Thank you."

"_No celin a melthin idh raid lîn, Estel._"

* * *

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